Beating a Detective at his Own Game
by luckypixi
Summary: Sherlock and John are summoned to Hampshire by request of Mycroft. With an unexpected flurry of snow, they soon find themselves snowed in at Sherlock's childhood home. With humour and usual Holmes Banter, please review!


**Well. Just as I announced at the end of 'Surviving the Storm' last week, maybe Saturday, I was going to write my next locked-in-a-room-fic. Then I find out, on Sunday (about fifteen minutes into Hounds) that my idea has already been used! Kind of... :D You'll understand by the end what I mean, so this is either a fic, or a canon missing scene: However you want to see it : )**

**So, I hope you enjoy this little fic, again, not sure how long it'll be yet...**

**Please review!**

**Enjoy!**

**Onwards...**

'John, this really is tedious'

John Watson rolled his eyes and pulled on his cotton gloves.

Standing just outside their front door in the London twilight, Sherlock was getting annoyed he couldn't hail a cab and John was getting annoyed he'd left his scarf in the living room. Having been rather surprisingly invited to Mycroft's country home for a meeting of 'the utmost importance', they'd had little choice than to abandon their fun filled evening they'd had planned (Sherlock conducting a rather macabre experiment involving a human pancreas and John completing that crossword in Mrs Hudson's Peoples Friend annual).

'Uh, finally!' exclaimed Sherlock, lowering his arm and opening the door to John, who nodded in thanks as he scrambled inside the black cab. Sherlock climbed inside gracefully and sat with his hands clasped, his black woollen coat pulled up to his ears.

Mid-January England was rather colder this year, having had a warm December, the British were being punished with a bitter New Year. A Met issued warning had told of heavy snow and John was just waiting for the first flakes to fall. Turning to lean his forehead again the cold window, the doctor stared at the passing streets of London, at the people. It was always interesting to watch what people do, how they act around each other. Sherlock was obviously rubbing off on him.

'Why would he want to see us, then?' asked John, turning conversationally to Sherlock.

'To be annoying' stated Sherlock, eyes narrowed. 'He _knows _that I detest travelling to Hampshire at such short notice.'

Hampshire, thought John. Nice to be told where he was going. This cab is going to cost a fortune, was his next thought.

'Well, something different, yeah?'

'Oh yes' Drawled Sherlock, rolling his eyes again. 'Very different, travelling back to my childhood home in the heart of Hampshire, sharing an evening with my brother. I'm sure it'll be delightful!'

John huffed, turning back to the window. He'll just sit here quietly, he supposed.

'Nigel'

Sherlock suddenly sat up straight, looking forwards. John watched as the driver's shoulders stiffened.

'You do know that it's futile to conceal your affair from your wife any longer?'

John cringed. It was one thing to do this to someone in the street who you could walk away from afterwards, it was another thing to do it to your taxi driver who was you were going to be stuck with for the next hour or so.

Turning back to the window, John sighed and closed his eyes.

It was going to be a long drive.

-x-

'Thank you very much' John waved at the driver, who grunted, ignoring Sherlock completely. Apparently he hadn't been best pleased at what Sherlock had told him. To his credit, Sherlock did pay the £200 taxi fare.

Sherlock shivered, pulling his coat around his neck and looked around. Just like he remembered. Night had firmly settled in and it was cold. Cobbled streets, high pavements and lush green bushes trimmed neatly lining the pavement, it all felt very familiar. A young boy wandering the streets, notebook in hand, performing 'psychic tricks' to his peers as to who the local butcher was sleeping with this week. A lonely life. Thank God for boarding school.

Without any warning, the first flakes of winter fell. Big white fluffy ones, sticking in John's hair as he smiled, zipping his coat up to his chin.

'Brilliant' muttered Sherlock, leading the way down the street. 'Knowing our luck we'll be stuck now.'

'Always the optimist' remarked John, following. It was nice to get out of London every now and then. Finally getting to see the stars, away from exhaust fumes and pushing people intent on getting somewhere they didn't need to be. It was all good in his opinion.

After a few minutes walking Sherlock paused before a large, black imposing pair of gates. John almost walked into the back of him. Great clumps were falling now, none of this watery stuff that didn't settle. This was coming down thick and fast.

Sherlock pressed the blue button below the speaker with a long white finger. 'Mycroft.' He stated.

'Ah, young Mr. Holmes, a pleasure to hear from you again.' Came back a clipped English accent.

'Ah, Vincent, he's still got you working has he? You must be over retirement age by now' smiled Sherlock, pushing through as the lock was buzzed.

'Sarcastic sod' came the reply, with obvious mirth as John followed, rubbing his hands together in cold.

As they turned a corner the doctor stopped, just managing to keep his mouth from falling open. 'Wow' he breathed.

Sherlock turned to him, eyebrows creased. 'What, this? You should see our seaside retreat'

Grinning inanely, Sherlock walked up the drive. Standing at the end was a house. More of a mansion, really, but a house. With dark red and brown bricks making a 'pavement' affect on the walls, ivy grew in knots around the solid oak front door, the window panes tinted, it was three stories high with a large front garden. A Mercedes was parked in the driveway, in front of a double garage with a dark green front. There were a few lights on inside the house and the whole place just screamed 'posh'. John could imagine Sherlock having grown up here, Mr. And Mrs Holmes paying staff to take care of their two offspring because they were too busy paying someone to balance their accounts. The Holmes abode was imposing, not surprisingly British through and through.

'He doesn't live here' Sherlock told him, looking at the house with disdain. 'He had business up here this week. He has another apartment in central London. A bigger one.'

'Right...of course he does.'

Sighing, Sherlock stepped forwards and knocked on the door.

Without a moments pause, the door opened with a flourish. John had to stifle a laugh, turning it into a cough just in time.

The man who opened the door was dressed in a tuxedo, a bow tie and had neatly parted grey hair. He looked like the archetypal butler, and John knew he'd have a hard time not to call him 'Jeeves'.

'Ah, young Master Holmes'

'Vincent' Sherlock bowed his head to his former butler, who nodded politely back.

'So nice for you to come back to your family home; it'll be a pleasure to see you and your brother together again.'

'Oh yes' Sherlock shrugged off his coat, hanging it on the back of a chair. John could swear he saw Vincent bristle; must be a Sherlock thing, he thought.

Vincent motioned for John to take off his coat, and John did so, making a point of keeping hold of it. He didn't like giving his possessions over to anyone and besides; he hated people waiting on him.

'Master Mycroft is in his office with his guest. I'm sure you remember your own way there, Master Sherlock?'

'Guest?' Sherlock swept out of the room, his purple silk shirt seemingly shining in the firelight in the corner of the room.

After travelling through a labyrinth of red leather chairs and historic paintings of kings, queens and former Prime Ministers of Britain, the doctor and the detective found themselves in a large oval-shaped room, with bookcases linking the walls and a dark oak desk in the middle. Behind the desk sat Mycroft Holmes, in a sharp suit and smug face. On the other side, sat rather lavishly on a cushioned chair, was Detective Inspector Lestrade. The policeman looked behind him and grinned as Sherlock almost turned around again.

'Nice to see you too' remarked Greg, turning back to Mycroft, who stood up.

'Ah. Glad you could make it.'

'Not content with making me travel to Hampshire with ten minutes notice, you decide to invite along my handler as well?'

'Hey! I'm not your handler.'

'It's a pet name he's given you, have you noticed?' Chipped in John, faux scowling as Sherlock turned to him, livid.

'I invited you all to...clear the air, if you will. I need to know that my brother and his' Mycroft searched for the right word. 'Colleagues are...shall we say getting along.'

'Getting along?' repeated Sherlock. 'Lestrade and I see each other as each case dictates and I live with John. We get alone fine.'

'With the threat of Moriarty being so great, I decided to brief you all at the same time, rather than individually.'

'Brief? What do you mean "brief" us?' John looked at Sherlock, who rolled his eyes. The detective flung himself into a leather chair, looking out the window.

'I mean, if and when the imposing threat crashes over our heads we need to be unified. You need to know you can rely on each other when you need to'

'And you brought us all the way out here to tell us that?' Sherlock drawled. 'That load of waffle could've easily fitted into a text.'

Mycroft glared at him, rolling his eyes. 'I assure you, it was essential we met like this. I fear Moriarty has eyes in most places in London.'

'As opposed to you, yes? Only last week I found a new camera in our airing cupboard and one in Lestrade's bottom drawer in Scotland Yard.'

'What were you doing in my bottom drawer?' Lestrade butted in, turning to look at Sherlock, who flapped his hand at him.

'Can we go now?' Sherlock asked perkily, standing up.

'No. You might as well stay the night. I'll have a car take you home in the morning.'

'I'm sure we'll manage another taxi.'

'I see you've brought out just the right amount of cash for a single taxi journey. You, of all people, know not to bring out a large amount of money on a London street.'

'We're not in London' pointed out John, confused.

'I see that, doctor.' Mycroft pursed his lips. 'I'm merely suggesting you stay the night, out of London.'

'So you can interrogate men whilst I'm here.'

'I'm concerned for you, that's all. It's only natural.'

'Trust me, Mycroft. There's nothing natural about this.'

Greg grinned over at John, who dragged a chair over to sit next to the policemen. 'It's just like being at home, eh?'

'Oh yeah.' John agreed, nodding towards a crystal decanter on the table. Greg poured and they both enjoyed a whisky as the Holmes War continued.

'This is simply childish' snapped Sherlock , sitting back down again.

'Besides...' Mycroft motioned towards the window. 'It's snowed quite a lot since you've arrived. I know by experience that most of Britain grinds to a halt at the first sign of snow. You won't be able to get a taxi back to London until the morning at least. Vincent!'

'Yes, Sir?' Vincent appeared in the doorway, as though he'd been standing there all the time. Which he probably had been.

'Please proceed with dinner. We'll all be eating.'

'Yes, sir.' Vincent shuffled back out.

'You knew...you knew we were going to stay.' John surmised.

Mycroft looked smug, sitting back behind his desk. 'Yes. I had Vincent cook an ample meal to sustain four men. And himself, of course.'

'Of course' repeated John, sipping at his whisky.

'Now he's got his claws in he'll never let us leave.' Murmured Sherlock, running a hand over the leather armrest to his chair.

'Not too bad, this place. Don't know why you keep moaning.' Lestrade drank all his whisky down in one.

'Just wait...' Sherlock told him.

Greg looked between Sherlock and Mycroft, who leaned back in chair.

'Wait for what?'

'My brother has a penchant for Cluedo.'

John and Greg groaned simultaneously.

It was going to be a very long evening.

**Cluedo! I couldn't believe it when it was mentioned at the start of 'Hounds' It will get better, I promise. This chapter being the set up.**

**This chapter took me all night to write; I found a repeat of Hounds on BBC 3 and just had to watch it...TARDIS spotting, actually. :D**

**So, how will Sherlock, John, Greg and Mycroft cope snowed in at Holmes Manor? Will they all suffer death by Cluedo? And what will Greg and John discover whilst snooping around the various rooms in the Mansion? Find out soon!**

**What did you think? Please review!**

**Back soon!**

**X**


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